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I grew up listening.
My dad and uncle filled the room with stories, images, and videos of Baja.
Tales of long nights, race miles, the Baja 1000 in ’91 and ’94. Stories about broken parts, long drives, surf trips, tacos, and the kind of chaos that somehow always works itself out.
In my early teens I saw Dust to Glory in theaters and that was it. What once was just a story from my dad, uncle, and others, became a driving force and something I needed to do.
End of 2016. I raced the 24 Hour at Glen Helen and a week later, off of recommendations from teammates I got a call to race the Baja 1000, and I didn’t hesitate.
It was wild from the start.
I pre-ran on a YZ250, mixing gas out on the side of the highway and figuring it out as we went. I had two sections that year. Santo Tomas to Shipwrecks, then Borrego up to the highway crossing in Ojos. We camped just below the store at the base of the hill in Santo Tomas, then moved to a small orange hotel in Valle de Trinidad until race day.
We didn’t know much. Not the access roads, not the rhythm of pre-running or how to pre-run, and had no idea of how much we still had to learn.
But it didn’t matter.
We met people. We laughed and broke down. We got lost and found our way back. It was raw and unpolished and exactly what it should be.
I’m still going back 11 years later.
There’s a saying you hear from time to time. Something along the lines of “You race Baja once, and you either never come back, or you never stop.” I’m in the second camp of people.
I might miss a year here and there, but it’s never by choice. There’s nothing else like it. Not even close.
My day job is a permanent ocean lifeguard, and I grew up in Venice, CA. The ocean has always been a part of my life, but Baja changed it.
Racing up and over from Santo Tomas, coming over the final hill, and the Pacific opens up in front of me. That first sight never gets old.
Or coming out of the silt at Cuatro Casas, and coming to the top of the rise and suddenly there’s a perfect right-hand point break lighting up under the morning sun.
Moments like that don’t translate to people. You can’t explain a feeling like that to them unless they’ve been there. And even then it’s hard. The morning of race day nerves, or engines in the distance and the sun isn’t even up. People lining the course in places you didn’t think people could reach.
The locals make it what it is. The energy, the generosity, the way they show up. There’s nowhere else like it.
I’ve had all sides of Baja racing down there. Good results and rides racing down there, mechanicals, crashes, all of the above...
In 2023 myself and Ciaran Naran won the overall on the bike at the San Felipe 250. I finished second overall at the Baja 1000 in 2022 and 2023. In 2024 I raced San Felipe solo and then the Baja 1000 with Austin Eddy on the DP Racing bike. In 2025 I raced with the Baja Bound 308x team, went undefeated in the 30 Pro class and won the championship.
But that’s not what stays with me or what matters.
It’s the miles with my dad. Last year alone we drove over 11,000 miles between pre-running and race day.
Pre-running. Chasing. Thousands and thousands of miles over more than a decade. Long days in the truck, quiet stretches, the occasional argument, and then back to it again.
That time adds up to something bigger than racing. It’s not lost on me that most 32 year olds don’t still get to spend that amount of time with their parent.
That’s the part that matters.
I got my first motorcycle at four years old. I raced a Prairie Dogs Grand Prix at Glen Helen not long after, and it never stopped.
I’ve been fortunate that I’ve never not had a dirtbike in the garage. I raced locally for years, then started racing more consistently in 2020. I won a District 37 Sprint Enduro and Hare and Hound championship in the 250 Expert class in 2020 and 2021. In early 2022 I moved into the 250 Pro class and won a D37 overall Hare and Hound and that among other good race results opened the door for me to a real competitive team.
October of 2022 I got a call from Forrest Minchinton about racing with him and the 3x Deus team at the time. A shot on a blue collar, but well planned and competitive team for the 2022 Baja 1000.
From there, Baja became a constant.
Pre-running might be my favorite part.
Slowing down. Taking the time and learning the course. Finding lines, and putting together the sections. Remembering where the rocks are buried and waiting, and what sandwash I can jump into and what one has a hole waiting for me in it.
And the people.
I’ve raced through remote sections in the rain and found full families out there, cheering like it’s a stadium. No fences. No tickets. Just pure energy, tacos and empty beer cans.
Race day comes. You build a plan and then race the plan.
Racing 100, 200, maybe 300 miles. Being on the bike anywhere from 3-7 hours. You push when you can, and slow down when you have to. And sometimes everything goes right and it all slows down. Your mind goes quiet and everything comes easy. Hours go by like minutes.
Next thing you know, you’re handing the bike off or crossing the finish line.
There’s nothing like it.
At the end of the day, I want more people to experience Baja. To see it for what it is and what it gives back.
But at the same time, I want it to evolve in one important way.
Safer doesn’t mean soft or means we can race with a giant bubble around us. It never will. That edge is part of why we go race and part of that high that we are all chasing. But right now, if something goes wrong out there, you’re on your own.
Baja Rescue is a nonprofit started by my friend Kirk Raleigh. We’re building a system with pre-staged UTVs and medical equipment to help extricate people in hard-to-reach sections of the course. Not based off of wanting to make money, but wanting to help people.
It’s about taking care of the people who show up to chase the same thing I still do.
Because once Baja gets into your system, it doesn’t leave.
